


wants

by agrippina



Series: don't stop me now [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Eventual Happy Ending, Mickey-centric, Multi, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5727907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agrippina/pseuds/agrippina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Mickey's been to juvie, but this is much different.'</p><p>Mickey gets an alternate end that's not shit. Ian's abusive behaviours come to light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. wants dont get, baby boy

**Author's Note:**

> This was deleted by accident D'; ssorry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey is sentenced and sent to prison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS FOR THIS FIC; emetophobia, effemiphobia, homophobia, alcohol mention+use, panic attacks / anxiety, tattoos, abuse of authority, rape, infidelity, domestic abuse, child abuse, child sexual abuse, abusive relationships, victim blaming, gangs, neo-nazism, drug use, drug overdose, body horror (in a dream), infections, serious injuries. Chapters will reveal these as you go along, please send me a message if I missed any!
> 
> A disclaimer: Yevgeny will not be a big part of this.

The first thing Mickey does when he gets into his cell is puke into the small metal toilet in the corner.

“You a fag?” He’s asked when he goes to make his bed. The man under him is big, much bigger than Mickey. He can’t afford to look weaker than he already has, and his vomiting spell made him look bad enough as it is, so he tries his hardest to reign in his anxiety and schools his features until they’re blank.

“Nah, man,” he says, Ian’s voice like an earworm reciting _pussy_ over and over in his head. His hands shake, his chest feels tight. He hopes the other seven inmates aren’t watching him. Mickey drapes his blanket over the thin mattress, scared and worn out the point now that his whole body feels likes it’s falling apart as he stands. The reality of his situation hasn't really set in yet, not fully.

The room is cramped, four bunk-beds pushed against both sides of the room. The toilet sits in a corner, and the door is small and barred. The other seven aren't watching him, but he feels a million pairs of eyes on him anyways. His bunkie looks at him skeptically but ultimately goes back to his own bed. While relieved, Mickey doesn't let himself relax until he's in his own bed.

He knows he’s failed, knows that even when he tries his hardest for anyone or anything it still won’t be enough. Couldn’t meet his father’s expectations, couldn’t meet Ian’s, couldn’t even do it with Svetlana. He thinks of Mandy, pale skin marred with ugly purple bruises. Her eye swelled shut.

His hands go up to rub his eyes, and when he sighs it's shaky. He can't help but want some sort of reprieve, even though he knows he doesn't deserve it. Mickey remembers his mother's raspy voice telling him, ' _wants don't get, baby boy,'_. He finds little comfort in her memory.

 

* * *

 

Mickey's been to juvie, but this is much different. His lawyer smells like alcohol when he meets with him. In juvie, he didn't have a lawyer, and his court sentence went so fast he'd barely had time to say a word before he was sentenced. Milkovich name perks.

He's never felt so hopeless in his life, nor has he craved Ian this much. His shame burns through him like an infection. In the showers, no one bothers him for now. Mickey's looked at, and someone yells profanities at him as he leaves but he puts on his mask and tries not to let himself be affected. It's hard, with all the anger and guilt brewing in him.

Lunch is bland, and he tries his best to swallow his vegetables and beef.

At night, it's the worst. There's nothing real to focus on to distract himself from his feelings, and it's not like he can pick up some booze. Cigarettes aren't allowed, but they're too expensive for him to afford from other inmates anyway.

His fists clench and unclench under the sheets. He seems to be permanently tense, now, always wired for a fight. The guards treat him roughly, without feeling. They don't talk to him when they move him from place to place. It's like he's not there. He feels smaller, feels himself sinking deeper into his own personal pit of dread and despair.

He thinks of Ian often, and his sister. He misses her terribly. Mickey thinks if she were here she'd be angry, but even that is comforting.

 

* * *

 

On the tuesday of his second week in jail, he gets into his first fight.

A guy whose nickname here is _Skunk_ starts picking on him in the line for food. Mickey hasn't slept properly in two weeks, so he's groggy and out of it. The inmate keeps poking his back, taunting him.

"Hey, bitch. Hey, hey. Hey  _pussy_ ," It doesn't immediately bother him, but the longer the line takes the angrier he gets. The inmate is bigger than him, tall and white with swastikas branded into his skin. He's not especially shocked by these, seeing his own father with the third reich eagle on his back every day was enough to desensitize him.

Mickey breathes hard through his nose, gripping his tray so hard it hurts. 

The man behind him laughs, and squeezes a handful of his asscheek. His grief has made him fearless, and before rational thought can tell him he should stop he turns around and smashes his tray into the other inmate's face. 

With height and weight against him, he's easily taken down. The man sits on his chests, throwing punch after punch to his face, "you fucking cocksucker!" He screams, and Mickey throws his arms up to try and protect himself. His body is too small to get out from underneath Skunk, despite his frantic struggling. He's reminded of bar, with his father above him screaming the same thing. A sharp pang of anxiety strikes him and he desperately tries to get out from under him, Skunk's fists bruising up his arms as he scrambles.

"Faggot!" The man screams.

It feels like forever but in reality it's only a few seconds before guards pull him away, and Mickey is given a small break before their hands grab him hard and drag him away. They put him in his cell for the rest of lunch time and only come to get him when it's over.

 

* * *

 

His nose is bruised, arms hurting and he feels numb. Mickey feels like he's six years old again, waiting outside the principals office to explain the bruising on his face from the beating he took the night prior.

Only when he was six, he got to ditch. When he was six, he could hide under the L all night long and no one could hurt him again. The feeling of isolation is worse, now. He hardly has the energy to lift his eyes when he meets with the doctor in charge.

The doctor's name tag says 'Smith'.

"How's your head feeling?" She asks. Her voice is high-pitched and kind.

He takes a deep breath, "hurts, not dizzy or anything."

She nods, and lifts his head by his chin with a finger to look at his eyes. His pupils dilate when she shines a light in them, and she orders him to stay awake as long as he can tonight before sending him off. In juvie, they had better healthcare. As a child, he'd stay up all night head pounding and would stuff tissue up his nose to staunch bleeding, try to stay quiet so his dad wouldn't come back in and hurt him again.

 

* * *

  

He's sentenced to fifteen years in a correctional facility for aggravated assault. Eligible for parole in two years. He retreats into himself the whole trial, zoned out and monotone when they ask him questions. He doesn't even remember Sammi testifying against him.

They transfer him right away, and his new cell is just as crowded, though now only with one other inmate. He's closer to Mickey's size, but it doesn't bring him much comfort. Ian was closer to his size and it didn't stop him from beating Mickey.

Did he really deserve those words? 

Whiney pussy?

Trash _?_  

 _Faggot_?

He remembers trying to keep his hands from shaking, hoping that when his anger faded and he let go of Ian that Ian wouldn't hurt him again. He was grateful for the beer, drank until his anxiety over Ian's harsh words and actions dulled.

That night he'd wanted to protect Ian with his life, throwing himself at the officers without a care in the world. He rubs at his eyes, trying to take the memory away. It was almost like when they took him,  _they took him_. He hadn't seen or spoken to Ian until he'd sprinted frantically to his house, lungs burning, only to be discarded like he was nothing. Like all his efforts to help and be better were all for naught.  

He was so confused, distressing memories from his father's words and then Ian spitting them right back word for word. When he lays on his bed, his whole body is tightly strung. 

If he lets himself unwind, he knows he'll break down.


	2. seven seven by eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glimpse into Mickey's past, and his situation worsens while he is incarcerated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italic represents the past and normal text is the present.
> 
> TW: attempted rape, drugs

_"You're not stupid," Mandy tells him one morning. She's got a broken pencil in her hand, forgotten third grade homework lying on the table in front of them. "I know that, like, the teachers always yell at you and stuff. But you're smarter than me."_

_Mickey's separating little baggies of weed for his brothers. He doesn't say anything, knows his sister has a kind heart but he's been in a crap mood ever since he'd gotten math test back with a D-. He thought he'd done better, he had put real effort.  "I'm serious Mickey... I got an F in math." She insists. She's only eight, but he knows she's much more perceptive than people would think._

_He sighs, setting the last plastic baggie down. There's thirty of them, all destined to be sold. "You're not stupid either."_

_She frowns at him, and sets her pencil down. Her nails are painted sloppily a candy pink colour, with nail polish she stole from her mother. "I can't even divide one hundred thirty two by, like, eleven." She looks away, ashamed._

_"That's twelve."_

_She looks at him for a brief moment and then writes the answer down. "Seven seven by eleven?"_

_"Seventy seven, and it's seven."_

_Mandy writes the answer down quickly and then stands up, "see!" She cries loudly, "you're so smart!"_

_Mickey blushes. He's ten years old, and he wants to do well in school, but all the teachers seem to do is get angry and the kids call him dirty and stupid so much he's started to believe them. He misses weeks at a time, sometimes, and doesn't have any of the supplies he needs to work. When he goes, he hardly gets it. Can't read most of the blackboard because almost all the letters in the alphabet are foreign to him._

_The sound of the front door opening startles them both, and Mandy sits down immediately. Mickey looks at his dad, kicking off his dirty boots onto the floor._

_Terry Milkovich has a cigarette in his mouth, barely staying in and lit. He observes his children from the door for a long moment then walks loudly into the kitchen, opening the fridge and pulling out two beers. He looks at them again, leaning his hip against the counter. "The fuck you two doin'?"_

_Mandy speaks up in a quiet, timid voice. "Homework."_

_Terry walks forward and picks the paper up, examining it before he crushes the paper in his hand and throws it away. "That shit's useless."_

* * *

 

Mickey spends a lot of time thinking. He knows that's a prison cliche, but it's true. His guilt demands his full attention, and he hardly leaves his cell the first few days.

The guards ask him several times why he doesn't come out to meals, and they're getting more and more persistent. He can only feign sickness so many times before they send him to the doctor, so he gets out of bed for lunch four days after.

Skunk is there, eyeing him from a table across the cafeteria but he doesn't act. Mickey doesn't feel afraid. He's fearless, his personal self-preservation skills eroded to make room for Ian. So he continues down the line and gets food, a watery white sauce over noodles.

He sits down at a lone table, blankly spooning the noodles into his mouth. He looks around the cafeteria, at all the different faces. The Aryans sit all the way across from him, and next to them is another gang and next to them another and another and another and suddenly he feels alone. At least they have their brothers, people to rely on. It's just another reminder that he's all alone. That he's been abandoned. 

 

* * *

 

_Mickey is hungry. It's been two days since his dad or brothers were home, and his mom is sick on the couch with a migraine so they can't talk to her. Mandy keeps complaining about her stomach cramping, and Mickey feels he has no other choice._

_The Kash N' Grab is close, and there aren't any security cameras. It's easy for him to stuff two small cans of tomato soup into his sweater and run all the way home to feed them both._

 

* * *

 

He wishes he knew Mandy's cellphone number. She had always been smarter socially, knew how to make people happy. Everyone seems to be angry at him these days, no matter how hard he tries to help. He doesn't know what to do with himself, emotions well up and stay lodged in his chest, to the point where he feels swollen with it. He thumbs his lip and ears constantly, then resorts to biting them till they're raw. It's a small remedy, for a man who's emotions are so stunted and mercurial. There's nothing else to help him, no way for him to get booze or smack. 

As the time passes, he gets more and more frantic. He has no outlet.

He tries not to look weak, puffs his chest out and keeps his expression carefully impassive when he's out and about. He knows the danger of this place, of men like his father and Skunk looking to hurt him.

On his sixth night he punches his cell wall so hard he breaks two bones in his hand.

 

* * *

 

_It's his eleventh birthday, and he's spending it tucked into his mother's closet._

_He'd been sitting and listening to his parents scream at each other until the distinct sound of flesh on flesh was heard and his mother had run out, ushered him into her closet with mascara tracks down her cheeks and a purple-black eye swelling shut._

_"Stay here, baby, stay here 'til mommy comes and gets you."_

 

* * *

 

No one signs his cast. His cellie stares at him for an uncomfortable period of time when he gets back to his cell. Mickey is still a ticking bomb, unsatisfied with his attempt to distract himself. He doesn't know what to do, feels like he's got restless leg syndrome in his whole body.

He paces. His cellie is hunched over and writing a letter, but he keeps glancing at him. It's creepy, and it makes Mickey's hair stand on end. His hair is dark brown, salted where his hairline starts to recede. He scratches his chin, and Mickey continues to pace. There's an opportunity in front of him, one he won't let pass for much longer if his cellmate keeps making him uncomfortable.

It continues. He gets angrier, muscles tensing as if in warning to the other man, who pays no heed.

The heat builds, small bubbles rising to the surface of the water until it's boiling over and Mickey lunges at the other man and throws a heavy punch with his left hand. It's awkward, because it's not his normal one but he's so angry. 

His cellmate is much stronger than he looks, their bodies may be close in size but their strength is severely disproportionate. The man hits him back, and Mickey staggers backwards. His nose leaks blood, and his head is suddenly pounding. He throws himself at the other man, and his cellmate grunts loudly before slamming a fist into his chest. Mickey wheezes, falling now instead of lunging. His cellmate is quick to respond and throws him down the rest of the way.

Mickey hits his head on the floor and he's on the ceiling, looking down at his cellmate who's holding him- him? Yes yes. Holding him down by the back of the neck and pulling his penis out, and Mickey makes a strange connection at this very moment: his hair is the same colour as Svetlana's. The same deep brown.

The man spits on his fingers. The man yanks his prison-issue pants down to his thighs,

The man begins to push, and with a hard crash Mickey is brought back down to reality. He struggles hard, bleeding from the head and drooling. The man growls, angry, and he sounds just like Terry for a moment. It makes Mickey thrash harder. Not enough to buck him off, but the guards come running.

 

* * *

 

_"Fuck, fuck, fuck."_

_Ian's breath on his neck, his hands on his hips, his cock buried to the hilt. He feels engulfed, consumed by Ian's presence behind him. His long, freckled torso blankets Mickey's sweating trembling back._

_"Is this good? Am I making you feel good? Fuck," Ian's voice is all he hears over the blood rushing in his ears. His forearms are folded in front of him, face pressed into them. Ian moves slowly, rotates his hips in circles. This is one of the closest they've been together, bodies flush and skin sticking._

_Mickey nods, his throat too blocked up to say any words. He's quiet during sex, only grunts and pants wrung out of him when Ian fucks him._

_It's six in the morning, and their first fuck of the 'sleepover'._

 

* * *

 

For the second time, he's in the infirmary. The doctor is a man, this time, and it makes him feel uneasy. He checks him over with an uncaring attitude, roughly grabbing and touching. He calls him 'inmate' like Mickey isn't a person who's been assaulted.

"I hit him first," his voice grates against his throat painfully. "I hit him first, I hit-"

"Please stay calm, inmate. You hit you head." The doctor interrupts him. His voice isn't as kind as the last doctor.

His cellmate is put in solitary, and he learns that his name is Robert.

 

* * *

 

He cries that night. Big, shaking, wracking sobs that make his body convulse so violently he has to hold himself together with his own arms to he doesn't break apart. 

 

* * *

 

_"So, that's it? We're over? Your dad beats the shit out of use, and you're just gonna get married. No conversation. Nothing?"_

_Mickey wan'ts desperately to explain. It's not simple, not like Ian's putting it. He makes Mickey sound like he's being ridiculous, like it's a choice. It's not._

_"You wanna fag bash?" No. "That make you feel like a man?" No._

_"You love me," fuck you. "And you're gay." STOP STOP STOP ST **OP STO-**_


	3. is this the right word?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Svetlana visits Mickey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drug use, infections, tattoos in this one
> 
> I am completely devastated at the prison scene. Mickey deserved better. I identified so heavily with Mickey, (I am poor, gay, mentally ill, traumatized, have family that has previously been involved with crime) and seeing him evolve and become such an amazing character has been a 'YOU CAN DO IT!' for me, so to see the writers COMPLETELY RUIN HIS ENTIRE LIFE was very devastating mentally and I am LIVID. They RUINED his entire life. He has NO opportunities going for him. Except here
> 
> I hate Ian. Ian is an abusive, insensitive and selfish person. He is completely trash in my book. I hate him. I hate all the Gallaghers.
> 
> Also... this probably isn't very realistic but I was completely at a loss about how to have Mickey start doing the jobs so. Not sure I'm satisfied with the convo between Mick and Skunk /Robson X)
> 
> Uncomfortable with murder so I'm having Mickey do other jobs.

_"I understand better than anyone, that you're afraid of you're father, you're afraid of your wife, you're afraid to be who you are."_

Mickey's first method of defense is to attack, always has been. It hardly works with Ian, he always ends up giving in. Coming out, sucking his cock, kissing him at that club, after he'd initially fought. Ian always pressed and pressed until Mickey gave. It was always Ian taking, and when Mickey had asked him for one thing...

_"You used to love me... now you don't even know who I am."_

 

* * *

 

 Svetlana visits him. She has Yevgeny in her arms. The Baby is sleeping, sucking on a light blue pacifier he knows is old because, Mandy used to use it too. She's run out of money.

He's the father. He has to provide.

"How's Ian?"

She narrows her eyes at him.

"Yev  will need new food, soon. You are-"

"His dad. I know. I'll figure something out, how are you doing right now?" This gives him something to distract himself with. 

She purses her lips, "OK. I have job with Kevin. We have few cans of baby food left. Diapers, too. We want to," she pauses, frowning.

"What?"

"Exploit- is this the right word? Exploit you in prison."

"How do you know what that means?"

"Nika knows lots of English. She teaches me."

"I'll figure something out."

 

* * *

 

Robert hasn't come back, but at night he dreams of scenarios where the guards weren't there to pull him away. His lonely cell is comforting, means he doesn't have to worry about someone jumping him in his sleep.

Also means no one is there to alert the guards when someone comes for him.

"Hey, prag, don't think I forgot about what you did."

It's Skunk. He's got four men behind him, each with their own unoriginal hateful scrawl branded into their skin. All slick bald. Skunk himself is holding a toothbrush, bristles gone and top melted to hold a razor blade. There's no telling whether or not screaming will help him; the Aryans are numerous and rich, and the guards could be easily payed off.

"Good news for you, though. We need a job done - can't have the Brotherhood involved directly. You wanna get off my shitlist? You do this for us."

Mickey thinks of Svetlana.

"Am I getting paid?"

Skunk sucks his top lip, staring hard at Mickey. He sighs. "Sure. Five grand, that's all."

"What do I have to do?"

"Deliver some H to a friend of ours down in C block, Larry Gillard. I'll pay you when the job is done. Wouldn't want to give you all that cash without a good job, now would we?" Skunk trails his greasy padded finger down Mickey's face.

"Any way you could transfer it into another account? I got a girl outside."

Skunk grins. "Yeah, man. Doesn't make a difference to me,"

 

* * *

 

Delivering the package is easy. He tucks it into his pants and then slips it to Larry as he's reading, who nods to him as he leaves.

It was easy.

Except...

Except the intense craving he got for it. Squeezed his hands into fists to stop his fingers from twitching. Taking it out and staring at it in the bathroom before he left. He'd done heroin once, with a friend. They'd fucked, after. Mickey had woken up dazed and confused.

It hadn't been the greatest experience, but he'd rather the confused and dreamy feeling heroin gives you than the guilt and anger.

 

* * *

 

Svetlana visits him again to tell him she got the money. Yevgeny isn't with her this time. 

"What did you do?"

Mickey picked at his nails, "brought a package for the AB down to a guy."

She nods, "and this will continue? Kevin does not pay good." Mickey sighs, looking around awkwardly. Skunk smiles at him weirdly from another visiting pod. He doesn't smile back. Svetlana raises her eyebrows.

"Well? Think about Ev-"

"I know! I'll see if I can get some jobs done. You should talk to some people outside. How's Ian?"

He can tell she's irritated. "He works with his big sister, now. Patsy Pies. I will talk to some people."

"He look OK?"

She nods. Her painted nails click against the metal counter, looking at him judgmentally. "He has moved on." Mickey's anger rears up without warning and he punches the glass.

She doesn't flinch.

"Tell him to come. Don't show up here without him. I'm going to show him. I love him. He'll see."

 

* * *

 

Skunk has him beat someone. The man pleads, but Mickey's thoughts of Svetlana and Ian drive his fist forward. It's ugly, swollen, and he winds up putting the other inmate in the hospital. He doesn't feel remorse. He's done this before. It's a job, a chore. And he does it well.

Mickey earns twelve grand, six of which goes to Svetlana and Yevgeny. His own, he uses to buy a needle and coke from Skunk.

He wants to show Ian, how committed he can be. How devoted. How loving.

At least, that's what he tells himself as he dips the end of the needle and carves his name out in his chest.

He snorts down half a gram of coke, and it mostly numbs the pain in his chest. It's red, inflamed. There's beads of blood that stain his blankets and sheets.

In the morning, he notices that the redness has spread to around the skin on his pec. It's tender to the touch, yellow and purple colouring surrounding the black ink. He's not worried. Ian likes commitment, he likes romance. This covers both. Even if he can't suck Ian's cock good enough or stand up to his father properly, he can show him. He'll show him.


	4. you ever think of me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian and Svetlana visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW; parasitophobia, drug use, emotional abuse, physical violence, self harm, infections, wounds + really graphic depictions of said infections / wounds.
> 
> I try to respond to all the comments :) Thank you for all the positive attention!
> 
> Mandy will come soon... Her and Mickey are my #1 favs.
> 
> Also!! Thank you to lesjouetsdudestin / brightbulbs again!

He does three more jobs for Skunk, and snorts another half gram of coke.

One night, he makes the mistake of taking it late. He doesn't sleep that whole night, and then in the morning he feels so sick with exhaustion he doesn't eat. Skunk keeps smiling at him every time he passes. It's weird. Their first meeting had been a fight, no matter how friendly he acted now. Mickey doesn't trust him.

He still sits alone. He's coming down from his high, and the food on his plate has never looked less appealing. He's never been able to handle lack of sleep well.

The CO's are watching him. Skunk is watching him. He feels like he's under a spotlight, like he's been flayed and peeled open for everyone to see. His body starts to shake. He starts to sweat, breathing heavy. He drops his fork. They see they see they s _ee they see they SEE-_

He stands abruptly and walks towards the cafeteria doors. He needs another hit, to ward away paranoia's ugly twisted face.

Mickey is hurried, nervously shuffling towards the entrance when a CO sticks their arm in his way.

"You can't leave lunch 'til lunch is over."

Mickey licks his lips. "Not hungry. I'm tired. I want to lie down."

CO Jeffery chuckles. "Sorry pal, that's now how it works. This is prison, you can't do whatever you want. Go back and eat."

"Come on, man-"

"What the _fuck_ did I just say to you? Go!  _Go!_ " The CO grabs his bicep, hard, and tugs him back to his seat. Mickey feels dazed, the unexpected physical push jarring and confusing.

He looks down at his food. It's still gross.

His skin starts to prickle. It starts at the back of his neck, down his spine and then all the way down to his extremities. He continues to shake, and CO Jeffery continues to watch him from afar.

It felt like a million little worms were crawling their way around under his skin. Mickey rubs his arms, his belly. He licks his lips.

 

* * *

 

Mickey stares down at the light brown birthmark on his hand as they buzz open the door for him. He passes by CO Jeffery on the way to the visiting pod. He's nervous. He's high.

Svetlana does a good job playing the doting wife. She kisses the glass.

He wiggles his fingers at the toddler.

"Say hi to Yevgeny like you mean it,"

"Hey, little man," it's forced. He doesn't see Ian. "Gettin' big."

Svetlana studies him, then passes the toddler to someone on her left. It's Ian. Mickey's temperature rises. The tattoo pulses in time with his hammering heartbeat.

Ian takes Yevgeny. Mickey thinks he looks uncomfortable, hunched over and awkward when he sits down and bounces him on his knee. He doesn't look at him, and Mickey feels unreal. After so long without Ian, it's almost dreamlike.

"You never know when they're watching," She motions to CO Jeffery with her eyes.

"What, that fat fuck? Like he gives a shit. Probably thinking about whether or not he'll get an extra helping of kielbasa or pierogi at his moms tonight,"

"I've got another job for you,"

He keeps watching Ian, like if he takes his eyes away for just a second he'll disappear.

"C block. Six O two. They pay twenty five hundred dollars but you must stab him in the eye, your cut will be fifty-fifty. "

Mickey can't stop looking. Yevgeny has his tiny fingers wrapped around Ian's. Ian still won't look at him. It nags at him, more than his itchy pulsing tattoo. More than Svetlana repeating 'in the eye' again.

"He just gonna sit there the whole time?"

Svetlana looks back to Ian, who, for the first time looks up. He quickly looks back at the toddler.

She scowls when she faces Mickey again. "Lots more jobs coming, we make a lot of money with you in here."

"Yeah, yeah, OK. Why don't you take the milksucker and scramble. I wanna talk to Ian."

"In the eye, yes?"

"In the fucking eye, I get it!"

Her irritated look disappears for a moment as she smiles. Svetlana presses her manicured hand to the glass for a long moment that makes Mickey irritated, then sits up slowly and takes the toddler from Ian's arms.

When Ian shuffles to the booth and sits, he still won't look at Mickey.

He breathes deep, trying to quell the tightness in his chest. He feels strangely manic, watching Ian pick the phone up and actually look at him. He feels like there's a balloon in his chest, steadily growing larger and larger the more time passes.

"Thanks," he breathes heavy, "for coming back."

Ian shifts, looking down now. "Yeah." It's quiet, gruff. Not at all the warm fruity voice Mickey was used to. "Svetlana paid me, so..."

It hurts. It feels like every time he takes a step forward, Ian moves a mile further ahead. He can't reach him, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how much effort, how much he's sacrificed. He feels hopeless.

"You look good."

Ian's shoulders are hunched uneasily. He doesn't respond.

Mickey smiles. "I got a new tattoo, I did it myself." This time, Ian looks up. Mickey reaches up to his orange uniform, and pops it open. "Hurt like a son of a bitch," he pulls his tank down, exposing it. Ian recoils. He frowns. It's not the reaction Mickey was hoping for. His fantasy of Ian waiting outside the prison doors smiling, waving, and telling him he did good slowly evaporates the longer Ian stares and doesn't speak.

"Jesus," Ian's voice sounds disgusted. Appalled. Mickey tries to keep smiling. "That looks fucking infected."

Mickey shrugs, "yeah well, hard to find a clean needle in here." He hopes Ian will see what he's sacrificed; his safety, his body. He wants desperately for Ian to forgive him.

"Gallagher is spelled with two L's." 

"No, it's fucking not..."

Mickey finds that the crushing disappointment he feels for himself is no match for the shame he feels when Ian laughs at him. 

"Fuck," he looks up, tries to interpret Ian's expression. For a moment, Ian smiles. He looks as if he goes to put the phone away, but sighs instead and looks at Mickey.

"I've been thinking about you." This makes Ian purse his lips, and look away.

Mickey hates how desperate he feels. 

"You ever think of me?"

Ian looks down. His expression is unreadable.

"You gonna wait for me?" His confident facade is wearing away. He sounds uncertain, afraid. His voice is quieter. Desperate.

"Fifteen years is a long time."

"Yeah, but I'll be out in two with parole."

"You tried to kill my sister."

"Half-sister," Mickey corrects. "And, like you give a shit? The bitch had it coming, calling fuckin' MP's on you."

The alarm signaling the end of visiting time sounds, and Mickey's whole body seizes in panic. Ian hasn't forgiven him, hasn’t done anything other than dodge his attempts at reconciliation. He's running out of time. He was sure Ian would see, would understand...

It's degrading to beg, but he's feeling more and more frantic by the moment as prisoners stand and leave their pods. "Will you?"

Ian is silent.

"Wait?" He elaborates.

He's grasping at straws at this point, when Ian doesn't speak.

"Fuckin' lie if you have to, man, I'm in here a long time."

Ian nods, slow. He doesn't look Mickey in the eye when he lies to him, and it's a devastating blow. The balloon filling in Mickey's chest pops and he feels limp. Both Ian and Svetlana leave without another word.

 

* * *

 

His mood is so low he can hardly move to get out of bed two days after The Visit. As a teenager he'd never understood why Mandy always came home crying and hollering after her latest boyfriend had broken up with her. Now he thinks that he gets it.

He feels empty, like all of him has been scooped out. He doesn't understand his purpose now that Ian has left.

His skin is clammy and sickly pale, the only difference being the long red lines that travel up towards his clavicle and down towards his abdomen.

The tattoo is hardly recognizable, a mass of swollen purplish red infected skin.  _Ian Galager_ doesn't show, anymore.

His vision gets progressively more blurred. He can't see Skunk or CO Jeffery from a distance anymore. Can hardly see the sweat stains that have started to accumulate on his clothes and sheets the more feverish he gets.

Four days after The Visit, he can't get out of bed. He misses breakfast and lunch before a CO comes into his pod.

"Why aren't you eating?"

Mickey is so exhausted he can hardly raise his eyes, let alone speak.

The CO presses. "Answer me, inmate."

Silence.

"Alright, you made me." The CO marches forward and grabs him, tugging him until the thin sheet falls and exposes him, "Jesus fucking christ!" He pulls his walkie talkie out of his belt and yells into it.

It's unintelligible to Mickey's ears. His vision swims, black spots invading his view until his whole body seizes and-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my opinion on 6x01: overcooked, crispy as fuck, and it looks like ghandi's flip flop what a shame.
> 
> Let me know what you thoughts! Your feedback is my lifeblood.
> 
> PS: I am rlly happy that I could put a little bit medical stuff here haha :')


	5. filled with lead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey wakes up in a safer environment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw / tags; EMETOPHOBIA, infection + graphic depiction of infection, psychologists / psychiatrists, hospitals, doctors, self harm, drug detox / withdrawal, depression
> 
> God I had SO much trouble writing this :P sorry if it comes across as forced / choppy. Exams are coming and 60% of my time is spent studying, cooking or training (I do 10 hrs in a week). Updates will be much slower - sorry :(

He dies for one minute twelve seconds before they bring him back. His temperature is at 104 F. His heart stops beating after it works too hard. The doctors manage to bring him back, before blood clots and gangrene or septic shock can set in.

He wakes up with an IV in his arm and a doctor observing him.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Mickey." His voice sounds clotted. "Milkovich."

The doctor nods. He writes something down on a clipboard, and explains.

Bacteremia. Severe sepsis. He's told he was in intensive care for two days, a medically induced coma keeping him asleep. He feels like his body is filled with lead, heavy and unable to move.

They feed him soft foods and refill his IV several times a day. A thick white bandage that stretches all the way across his chest hides the tattoo. He takes antibiotics several times a day and is subjected to blood tests.

His wrist is cuffed to the side of his bed. Mickey finds it stupid, as if he could escape in this condition...

 

* * *

 

Mickey is numb more often than not. Recovering is a long drawn out process because he is unwilling to help himself. The doctors and nurses encourage him to try to sit up on his own, to drink water and feed himself. He can't. He's too exhausted.

He feels worthless. To dedicate himself completely, hone and change himself to Ian's liking and then to be abandoned... Like a child getting sick of a toy. It's dehumanizing. He feels humiliated.

Mickey is afraid to go back to prison, so he tries his best to not show the withdrawal. It's not terrible, his body having formed a previous tolerance, but it's there. He craves; the itch has followed him. More than anything, he missed the rush of dopamine (happy chemical), brief as it was. 

 

* * *

 

When he starts to get bed sores, they send in a psychiatrist. 

Her name tag reads 'Doctor Pam White' and she's got blonde hair that reminds him of his sister. 

She asks him questions that seem small and unimportant to him, but ultimately lead her to giving a recommendation at the prison to put him on suicide watch. 

When he returns. 

It distresses him, the fact that it's ' _when_ ' and not _'if'_. It only serves to reinforce his hopelessness. He has no other choice. 

He changes from depression to rage several times, stark differences that happen almost randomly. Dr White can see he's not well. She asks him about the cocaine, his crime, then his family. He gives her hardly anything.

Mickey is glad she doesn't know about Ian. He wouldn't be able to handle it.

Dr White looks at him, a lot. It unnerves him, the way she watches his movement as if expecting him to do something terrible. Like he's got a knife somewhere ready to off himself at every moment. It makes him more anxious, and he has trouble keeping himself calm under her gaze.

 

* * *

 

When he's deemed in a stable enough condition, he is moved back into the prison.

For the whole trip he is quiet, anxiety boiling inside him until it froths over the edge and he explodes inside the transport van.

In the end, he is sedated and his previous broken wrist has to be re-casted and he slammed his head so hard against the wall that when he wakes in the infirmary, his headache is so bad he vomits.

His wrists are both strapped down, as are his ankles. He doesn't know how to feel about that. They're not painful, but he almost feels like a caged animal. Punished. Reduced.

A prison doctor comes to see him, this time. A psychiatric evaluation and possible 515[0](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/5150_\(involuntary_psychiatric_hold\)), if he doesn't behave.

His questions are much more invasive. It makes him feel like someone is worming their way inside his meat, picking out all the rotten bits and examining them one by one until he is checked off into the diagnosis of 'unstable' and 'a danger to himself and others'.

 

* * *

 

"How long?"

"How long, what?"

"How long will I be here."

"That is yet to be determined, Mickey. You are clearly unwell. This is only a seventy two hour hold, but it's possible for you to stay longer. I'm here to assess your current state, do you understand?"

"I'm not sick," Mickey has seen sick people: his mom and Ian and Mandy.

The doctor frowns at him. "Then how would you explain your outbursts? The correctional say that you didn't eat the first couple days of your sentence."

The room is white, not bright and overwhelming like the prison walls but a soft cream white that is strangely soothing.

He doesn't know what to say, feels out of place because he's never had someone so focused on him besides Ian.

Mickey is so used to punishment, to have every wrong he did no matter how small be met with violence or scorn. He expects the doctor to be angry with him, but he just shakes his head slightly.

"I'm here to help."

He doesn't talk the rest of the meeting, so they send him to his room.

It small, with a handle-less door and two small windows that only open with keys. A small bed with light blue sheets. It's strange, he feels more vulnerable in this solitary place rather than confined. Nowhere to hide, to run.

 

* * *

 

Mickey wishes Mandy were there. She would know what to do, he thinks.

They encourage him to talk, to attend group therapy and as many meals as he can stomach.

He's still on the antibiotics, and they've added lexapro. It makes him nauseous for the first few days, but they know when he hasn't taken it so his body eventually becomes accustomed.

He sits in the library often, just watching. The other patients can read, draw, write... he's awkward but the chairs are comfy and sometimes the fluffy blankets draped over them aren't stolen by someone else. He wraps them around his body, but flings them off when someone catches him.

 

* * *

 

He's most uncomfortable when he goes to group meetings. There's nothing else to do (he can't read). He sees men crying, talking about all their problems in the open and Mickey wants to scream because he fears for them. He wants to tell them to  _shut up_ , and,  _you'll get in trouble!_

Because growing up with a dominant hyper-masculine father who would not tolerate emotion _(quit your cryin', you pussy)_ could do that to you.

It makes him nervous, brings him back to the moment where Iggy had to clamp his mouth shut and hide in their room so that his dad wouldn't hear him crying.

On Friday it's pancakes in the morning, pizza for lunch and burgers for dinner. The patients are in a good mood, and their jovial conversations in the cafeteria boost Mickey's mood just enough that he can actually eat.

His progress is noted by a member of staff, who writes it down in a notepad.

On Friday, they have movie night. There are votes where all the patients choose between a selection of movies and give their slips of paper to one doctor who sorts them out and announces.

It's "Mulan". He does't mind, too full to eat the popcorn that is offered to him. Mickey enjoys himself, but when he gets back to his room he feels guilty. It almost feels... undeserving, that he's had a good day. As a kid, whenever he laughed or trying to have fun his father would always stomp out the excitement and he would end up punished for something he couldn't help (breaking something, being too loud...)

 

* * *

 

They tell him has a phone call, and Mickey looks up and frowns. Who would call him? For a moment, he hopes it's Ian. Like a devoted dog licking the hand that beat it.

It's not.

It's Mandy.

"Mickey?"

For a moment he can't really breathe, the old fear that she'd end up dead in some dumpster in Indiana coming back up so suddenly he wilts against the wall and sits on the floor. 

She laughs, "breathe. I, uh..." he can almost see her biting her lip nervously. "I'm back in Chicago."

He almost cries with relief. "And Kenyatta?"

"Gone."

"How did you find me?"

"Went to Ian. He told me you were in prison and they told me you were here. Wouldn't let me visit, not for two weeks at least. Bullshit, if you ask me,"

She continues to talk, and all Mickey thinks is how good it feels to listen to her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I'm both dragging this out and rushing it??? Idk I'm not confident with this chap at all. I hope you guys liked it... tell me what you thought. Feed me some feedback :') positive or negative are both welcomed. ⊙‿⊙


	6. not all progress has to be big

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mandy convinces Mickey to help himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: infidelity, emotional abuse + manipulation, child abuse (mentioned)  
> Mandy is a bit OOC I think in this chapter, but it'll make sense when I post 'needs' (Mandy's recovery fic)
> 
> ! EDIT: Jan 22nd... I went over this and edited a lot. I was in a rush to post when I first did, so this sounds better. !
> 
> I'm crying rn... I honestly didn't expect any attention for this and I was just told it was someone's favourite fic... I'm///// dead lol. Thank you!!!!!!!
> 
> I'm so upset I accidentally deleted it... honestly. D';

He talks to Mandy almost every day for two whole weeks until she comes to visit. She talks to him about her friends, her new job, the little apartment she shares with three different girls. It keeps him busy, even if they're only allowed ten minutes for each phone call.

She seems to be doing better. There's new brightness to her voice he hadn't seen before now. Mandy sounds... Buoyant.

He's happy for her.

 

* * *

 

Mandy visits him as soon as she can (the day they clear her), and she hugs him in the visiting room. It's a communal room with plenty of tables and couches for other families to talk to the other patients. It makes him feel less weird, seeing her while he's in this place. It makes him feel less embarrassed.

"Mickey, you fucker-" she cuts herself off by hugging him fiercely. He's always loved her boldness. She had never been quiet or subdued. Not even by Kenyatta, it seemed.

Mickey gives her a small smile. He feels like he's in a trance, not used to the smiling healthy Mandy after seeing her in such bad shape.

She looks at him for a long while, sitting with her legs crossed on a couch and flats kicked off onto the carpet below. She's wearing a dress, chartreuse in colour and flowing all around her.

"What happened?"

"What do you mean?"

"I never expected to see you in a mental hospital."

There's no malice behind her tone.

"Me neither." His own voice is quiet. Defeated, almost.

Mandy sighs, reaching over to squeeze his knee. She looks sympathetic, and Mickey can't help but be angry at that. He jerks his leg out of her grasp.

" _Don't_ you fucking-"

She interrupts him, and her voice is clipped now. "What, Mickey? I'm not here to pity you, OK? Ian told me..." she sighs, and loses the aggression. "Listen, Ian told me everything."

Mickey expects her to be angry with him, call him a pussy or an asshole but instead her bottom lip quivers and she grabs him by the shoulders.

"I know you tried, Mickey. I  _know_."

He's not sure how to handle the emotions her statement brings him. His heart beats fast, and his anxiety mounts steadily. She knows him, though, and continues to talk without expecting an answer.

"You have to help _yourself_. You're not a tool. I'm not here to give you shit, okay? It takes a long time to learn this, trust me, but you really do deserve _help_."

Mickey's shaking, looking down at his feet. He doesn't know how to act. He feels exposed, laid bare and embarrassed about his vulnerability. She smiles at him, and pulls him into a hug.

 

* * *

 

He has what they call 'good' and 'bad' days. He has two main doctors: Dr Stout and Dr O'Connor. They're both understanding, both nodding and smiling.

He doesn't speak much, only gives bits and pieces of himself.

The doctors tell him he's doing good progress, though, and encourage him to "open up".

It's hard, years of being gagged into silence with force and fear having taken a toll on him, but they're always saying 'baby steps' and that it doesn't need to happen right away. Mickey is cautious when he speaks, and his doctor notes that he tenses and diverts when he asks about his family.

 

* * *

 

He tells them about his time in juvie, about the guys he met there and how his father clapped him on the back then gave him a celebratory beer.

Dr Stout says his father was wrong to reinforce that kind of negative behaviour.

"I felt proud, though. One of the only times he wasn't looking at me like he hated me."

 

* * *

 

Mickey talks a little more and more. It's hard to let go when he's never been in control, but Dr Stout tells him that it's normal to take time. To be distrusting.

At least he's trying, now that Mandy sees him regularly.

"Not all progress has to be big to be significant, Mickey. Don't worry about what you say, or when, just tell us what you're comfortable with. We're here to help."

Mickey's whole life had been people telling him he was useless, that he was destined for failure. He doesn't have a positive view of himself, always saw his future as a closed off set path that could not be changed.

His outlook is changing, albeit slowly.

They tell him he's worth something, offer praise when he has good days.

The impostor feeling he has being here lingers at the back of his head, telling him he doesn't deserve their attention. It restrains him: disables that part of him that says 'maybe they're right' /  'maybe you are worth it'.

 

* * *

 

Mickey doesn't talk about Ian.

There's still the feeling of owing and guilt eating away at him. Whenever he's in the shower, looking at that mass of ink and new raised scars, it brings him a sense of nostalgia for what they once had.

He wonders if this is how Ian felt, in this place. He wonders if Ian ever felt guilty for going behind his back to fuck those other guys, or for taking Yevgeny.

Mickey wonders if Ian had ever found freedom in him like he had in them...

 

* * *

 

 

When he sees Dr Stout, he's having a 'bad day'.

"The experiences we have shape who we are, Mickey."

"What the fuck does that make me, then? Some poor criminal kid who got beat by his dad, or, a pussy who dropped out in the sixth grade?" 

"No." Dr Stout says simply. "Is that how you see yourself?"

Mickey grunts, frustrated. Dr Stout sighs.

"Mickey, being abused doesn't mean you're worthless or that what happened will define you for life. What I'm saying is, that you have learned and grown from these experiences."

Mickey snorts, and shakes his head.

"You're resourceful, Mickey. Smarter than you think."

"Yeah. Thanks."


	7. some trees and grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey learns he has skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW; child abuse (mentioned), drug addiction (mentioned)
> 
> I'm trying really hard to get Mickey's character right, but we've never seen him in this situation so it's hard. Let me know if it's too OOC. Also not a mental health professional but I have been doing quite a lot of research...
> 
> Been kind of feeling uninspired and depressed lately so sorry this was a suuuper slow update...
> 
> The coffee shop Mandy mentions is fake, I made it up.
> 
> Also... If you leave a critique make sure it's on what I can improve and not just 'this sucks' lol.

The air conditioning breaks, so it's a hot day when Mickey first picks up a pencil and paper.

Mickey hasn't drawn since he was thirteen, when his dad had ripped up his last sketchbook and said that if he ever caught him doing that 'girly shit' again, he'd kill him.

They pencils are not the greatest quality, the standard orange ones you find in schools. The paper is plain white 'printer paper', and the first thing he sketches is the scenery outside the hospital grounds.

Because the facility isn't in the city, he has a fairly nice view of some trees and grass. It's kind of boring, he thinks, but it's good practice.

He draws this for twenty minutes, and ends up unsatisfied with the result.

Mickey sets the paper down in front of him, and restarts. He spends two hours in this room, redrawing the trees and grass over and over. Fixing details, refining the shapes, using the side of the pencil for better shading...

He only stops when he's called for his afternoon therapy.

Dr O'Connor smiles as he walks in, holding his doctors clipboard. He's crossing his legs, a casual slouched position that puts Mickey at ease.

"How are you feeling today, Mickey?"

"Fine... I drew."

Dr O'Connor looks a little surprised, raising his eyebrows. "What did you draw?"

"Nothing interesting or whatever. I spent, like, two hours doing it though." Mickey finds it easier to talk, when the topic isn't emotional. Or personal. 

Dr O'Connor nods slowly, writes something down that Mickey can't see. "How were you feeling when you drew?" He asks.

"Like I wasn't here, I guess. I lost time. I had to snap out of it when they came and got me."

Dr O'Connor talks to him about healthy outlets, how to spend time and take frustrations out on good things.

 

* * *

 

He's four months and three weeks into the program, and while there's no set release date Mickey feels... better.

He's scared to admit it, scared if he says it or thinks it it'll go away.

They give him a notebook.

Mickey doesn't know what to do with it at first, keeps it around but doesn't write in it. Dr Stout tell him it's for when he feels badly, and that when he can't talk, to write how he feels. It's part of the coping mechanisms they've been trying to find for him. Healthy outlets and all that.

He doesn't mention to them that he hardly knows how to read, and his writing is even worse. He can sound out letters, guess how the words might be spelled but, out of the fear that they'll read it and make fun of him, he keeps the notebook empty.

There's a small grassy area outside, but he doesn't have enough privileges unlocked to be able to access it.

They discuss more options, and over time he learns that instead of punching the wall or yelling at another patient: he can doodle, or go to his room and practice breathing exercises, or squeeze a stress ball... There are _options_.

His drug abuse is a tougher subject to breach, an old self-medication technique that's still wearing off, even now. He tells them tentatively about how he's done most drugs there are: how it was easier (and cheaper) to reach for those than to reach for help. Before, admitting all of this and saying the words "I need help" out loud would have seemed impossible.

Mickey admits he can't read, in a morning session with Dr O'Connor. He's embarrassed, but he's got the stress ball in his hand and now he doesn't feel like running away.

"Not at all, or?"

"I know the letters, and like, the sounds. Just not all the words."

Dr O'Connor isn't mean. He doesn't laugh at him patronizingly when he gets things wrong (Ian), doesn't get angry when he takes a lot of time (Terry). He's patient when he teaches.

Mickey's not ready to talk about Ian yet, but he can write now.

 

* * *

 

It's easier to write than to project his feelings aloud, so in only a few days he manages to fill the notebook. It was only 150 pages, but Mickey feels like it's somehow an achievement. He tells his doctors separately, and they're both proud.

Mickey starts to read, too, picks out short and easy books from the library, and goes through them.

He learns more ways to spell and use words in sentences, and slowly, with his second notebook now; his entries become more legible and better written.

The structure the hospital gives him slowly straightens him back out. He's almost afraid to leave, doesn't want to think about the future outside of this place. Does he go back to prison? Who will hire a convict?

Mandy says she's got a new job.

"My support group guidance leader recommended me and now I work there. It's a coffee shop, it's called Bean Water."

"Cool. What're you working as?"

"A barista. All my friends work there, too, and sometimes I get to take little pastries home 'cause the bakers' my girlfriend."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Yeah. Karen."

"Oh, cool."

The conversation veers from her new coffee shop to his progress. It's a little awkward to talk about, but she smiles and he feels good about it. Mandy tells him all about her support group and they exchange tips on calmness and anger management.

"Honestly, sometimes you just have to walk away."

 

* * *

 

Mickey falls asleep easy, that night. He's had more 'good' days than bad, nowadays. It'll have officially been six months in here when he wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!!!


	8. mickey continues to wait for the inevitable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey makes new friends and opens up about Ian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for discussions of: emotional abuse and manipulation, domestic abuse, infidelity, rape, drinking/abusing drugs as a coping mechanism, prostitution, and correction therapy for homosexuality. DISCUSSIONS OF 3.06 IN THIS CHAP! Also, 
> 
> Sorry for taking so long! Hope you enjoy this. :)

"What the fuck kind of name is Clay, anyway?"

"Well, at least I'm not named after the fucking Disney mouse. Jesus."

Mickey huffs, putting two king cards onto the table. They're playing gold fish. Clay is a nice enough guy, comes from the same neighbourhood and talks the same as him.

Dr Stout makes notes all the time about how open Mickey has become now: speaking with different patients. He has three people he considers friends now. Clay, a girl called Penelope and another called Laura.

He was scared, at first, but they're all in the same place with their own individual problems and no one asks anything about his. He knows that they know what he feels like, being here, so there's no pressure to explain or hide anything. Laura is open about being a lesbian, too, and it's that that gives him the courage to come out to those three.

It's a good environment, encouraging structure and routine that he slowly gets used to.

He can sleep. He takes his meds. He talks more, and subsequently releases years of built up negativity. He can't even picture that first month - being sedated because of his violence, anger and uncomfortable feelings at the very thought of speaking - now that he's gotten this far.

Clay says, "got any eights?"

Mickey grumbles and slides the card over. He has five cards left, and only three pairs compared to Clays' seven.

 

* * *

 

Mickey waits a long time to talk about Ian. He doesn't really want to, but with how much he's admitted and how long he's been here... he feels like he owes them the information.

"I'm gay." It's the first thing he says. Dr Stout doesn't react for a few seconds.

"Alright," he's not frowning or laughing... Mickey continues to wait for the inevitable.

He suddenly feels awkward at the lack of explosive response after a few long moments. Sexuality has always been a hugely important subject in his life, and he's always expected anger or humiliation as a result of it. It's jarring to see the doctor so neutral.

"I expected something else..."

"Anger?"

"Or you making fun of me or some shit. I don't know."

Dr Stout raises his brows. "Has anyone reacted this way?" He asks, scribbling onto his notepad.

"I never even told my mom. My dad, he... caught me and a guy."

"Having sex?"

"Yeah. He beat us both."

"You look anxious," Dr Stout remarks. "Usually when we talk about your father now you're calmer. Did something else happen, besides the beating?"

Mickey breathes out shakily, curling his hands into fists and lightly grabbing his pants. He's regretting his choice to wear looser sweatpants now that he's sweating freely into them. He's regretting bringing up the subject of what happened...

"Yeah. He called someone, after he beat us both. I thought he was going to kill me." He snorts halfheartedly, trying to alleviate the seriousness in the air.

_Send over the Russian._

Mickey continues despite the awful feeling in his chest, tightening like a vise. "I managed to pull him off the other guy. I just wanted him to get the fuck out. It's..." he sighs, frustrated at the lack of words.

Dr Stout waits for him to continue.

"Fuck, man, I don't know. He walked in and started wailin' on us, I jumped onto his back. He pulled a gun. I don't even remember after that, just laying on that couch while waiting. My head hurt like a bitch. He called someone over, and I was so sure I was a dead man. The only thought going through my head was 'how am I going to get Ian out of here?'"

"Ian?"

"The guy with me."

"You sound like you care about him a lot."

Mickey nods slowly, "I did. I  _do_. I've always cared about him."

"You were in a relationship?

Mickey shrugs. He's not sure what to say about it. He feels ashamed. "Back then? I don't really know. I was starting to really like him, though. It all got fucked up."

"In what way?"

"That person he called over," he takes another deep breath. "Was a girl. A wh-" he stops himself, feeling bad for the word, then alters it. "A prostitute. He wanted her to fuck me straight."

Dr Stout remains neutral, which is a blessing to Mickey: he's always felt disgusting over what had happened, and a grimace or a frown from Dr Stout would have made it worse.

"He said, 'ride him 'til he likes it.'" _сука_. "I couldn't even lift my head after, was like, delirious for a few days after. Concussion."

Dr Stout explains rape by proxy, and the discussions of his feelings afterwards isn't as bad as he thought it would have gone. They identify the feelings, then Dr Stout explains rape trauma syndrome and they match both of them up. They talk more on his substance abuse, the self-isolating in those buildings. 

Then Ian.

"He went to see me, after. He said it was his fault. Said he wanted to, uh, make sure I was okay..." 

"His fault?"

Mickey explains how, he'd been alone because, for all those days that he was around people, being touched or looked at was almost unbearable. A simple look would put him on edge, have his skin prickling.

He had felt guilty for not looking at Ian, faltered with his repetitive shooting. Mickey had never felt so vulnerable, and the urge to hide and burrow somewhere safe had never been stronger than in those days after what had happened. He explains to Dr Stout that Ian had been angry, demanding. Dr Stout explains that Mickey didn't owe him anything: not even a look. Not anything.

Mickey almost feels a little awkward, but reigns in the feeling and crosses his legs comfortably instead.

"I always felt bad when I couldn't do what he expected. His dad caught us, too, one day."

"And you were scared?"

"Yeah."

"Understandably. How did he react?"

"I wanted to kill Frank. His dad. I know that's shitty, but I thought of what my dad would do and, well..." Dr Stout nods, and Mickey continues. "Ian told me not to. He told me he could talk to Frank, convince him not to tell anyone or whatever. He wanted to, uh, negotiate or some shit. I know first-hand that negotiating with guys like that doesn't work. He looked... he looked so fucking upset. I left, went home to ask my brothers for help. I've never killed anyone before."

He pauses a brief moment, looking down and shaking his head.

"Ended up putting myself in juvie, again. Figured it was safer than being at home if Frank told him."

They discuss the aftermath, and the night at the dugouts; how sentimental it is ( _was?_ ). Mickey tells Dr Stout about the marriage. It's hard, he feels guilty and scared all over again but Dr Stout is reassuring. He's kind. He takes the time to help. Mickey tells him how, Ian came to him right before. Threw the bottle, chased after him when he tried to leave. Mickey isn't proud of what he did. He knows this wasn't okay. Dr Stout, while still understanding, talks to him abut violence and lashing out. 

He signs Mickey in for a talk, a woman who's coming to talk about anger management and lashing out; How To Calm Yourself In The Moment.

The session ends before they can finish, but Dr Stout tells Mickey to practice his breathing exercises and to write some more.

 

* * *

 

Laura, Penelope, and Clay are all sitting at a table in the library. they're playing Oh Heck. It's an intense game by the looks of it. They're all smiling open-mouthed and laughing, and while Mickey isn't a part of the game he feels included. He feels free.


	9. he likes soft and pleasant things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mickey and Dr Stout talk about Ian and Yevgeny. Mickey and Dr O'Connor talk about masculinity and what it means to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW's for this chapter; talks of infidelity (Ian), emetophobia (briefly, but still mentioned), emotional abuse and manipulation, domestic abuse, drinking/abusing drugs as a coping mechanism, child abuse, anxiety, and corrective rape (3.06), child abuse.
> 
> Let me know if I've missed any!!
> 
> I'm so sorry it's been so long! :( I hope this is worth the wait... Longest chapter so far.

Mickey and Dr Stout talk at great length about Ian. Almost every day, they go over everything and Mickey gives his point of view on everything that happened.

He fights this time, defends Ian's actions; tries to justify everything.

"He was hurting. And I beat the shit out of him, too."

"The difference between those two situations, Mickey, is that you are trying to better yourself. You are trying to make amends. What has Ian done?"

Mickey is quiet. He knows Dr Stout is right, but at the same time that guilt and inferiority complex only Ian can bring out sews his lips shut and he curls his hands around his own biceps, just holding himself. He almost just... doesn't want to hear it.

"It's true that sometimes when you are in a bad place mentally, you say and do bad things. You can hurt people. The difference between you and him is that he has not taken the steps to atone, or even to apologize."

He nods. It's only twenty minutes into the session, but he wants to leave. Wants some time to wrap his head around this.

Mickey doesn't ask until Dr Stout says, "you have done bad things. You have hurt people. But now, you are trying to minimize any future damage and fix your previous mistakes. Ian's behaviour towards you was abusive. Do you understand?"

"I don't... ugh, fuck. Can I go back to my room? I need to think."

"That's OK, Mickey. We can end this session early."

He's dismissed, and walks straight back into his room. Penelope waves at him briefly, but he feels too stressed to do anything so he just leaves.

His room is still small, but he has enough privileges to open his window wide and leave the door locked. His blankets are thin but numerous enough to make him feel shielded.

Mickey thinks. And thinks, and thinks... he goes over their every moment; trying to see. He wants to understand.

It's a disturbing realization for him. Frightening, almost, to realize that so many moments he thought were normal were not. He'd grown up with violence and hurt all around him, with undeserved blame and responsibility put on him.

_If you hadn't dropped that glass, he wouldn't have hit you._

_If you had been good, he would have fed you._

_If you had begged, he  would have stayed. (Don't what?) ("You coming back?" "Depends. Will you suck my dick whenever I want?")_

He sits up, breathing harder. Mickey had certainly felt hurt during times like that, but had never even considered that the person who he'd idolized, who he'd loved could have had those intentions. He had never even considered his own feelings, always grinned and bore it, telling himself it was deserved. Telling himself that if he had done better, it wouldn't have gone down that way.

Mickey reaches for the closest comfort object: his stress ball. He kneads, rubbing it with his thumb. The soft pliancy of the object helps him put most of his urgent energy into it, practising a series of breathing exercises.

There's no defining moment that makes him feel this way. No breaking point in his memory that he can think of; it had always just been. The fighting. The hurting. The impossible demands.

 

* * *

 

Mickey and Dr O'Connor stay on the topic of his father, and his childhood. It almost feels like a welcome change from the more difficult, confusing topic of Ian.

They veer from the physical abuse, and more towards the neglect.

"It got worse when my mom left. She always tried to help, tried to like, do as much as she could with what she had. She was always around us."

Mickey recalls her hands, wiping away tears and blood. She would always be the one to comfort them, care for them. His earliest memory is of her in the kitchen, with Mandy sat on her hip, making them a meal with what she could.

She rubbed their backs when they were sick, she iced bruises and stitched up the cuts she could. To Mickey, masculinity became synonymous with violence and femininity with care and comfort.

To Mickey, femininity was punished and masculinity praised. There was no insult worse than _pussy_ , or _bitch_ , or anything that made reference to "weakness".

"If someone called me anything like that - pussy, or some shit - and dad was there, I had to beat them. Otherwise he'd beat me, for making our family look bad."

His skewed point of view on masculinity becomes a subject. He explains that the environment Mickey grew in was toxic, a patriarchy.

He explains that feminine ≠ inferior. And in turn, Mickey admits that he acted hyper-masculine and misogynist as a front for his father. That if he hadn't, it would have brought on suspicion and eventually a beating or worse. He admits that he likes comfort, that he likes soft and pleasant things. It's a little embarrassing, but they've been working on openness lately and it feels right to say it out loud.

"I used to have a plushie dog. He was pretty big, a Bernese dog or something like that. I don't know shit about dog breeds but, he helped. I hid him under my mattress and sometimes in Mandy's room. He... he helped. When I was mad I could squeeze him hard. When I got hurt, I'd pretend he'd..." Mickey rubs a hand over his face, which reddens.

"He'd?" Dr O'Connor encourages.

"I'd pretend he'd kiss them better. Jesus, that sounds fucking childish."

 

* * *

 

_Mickey is bawling. At four, he still doesn't quite understand how jumping off the railing on the steps of his porch doesn't make him fly. There's a big scrape on his left knee now, bleeding. The right isn't much better, but there's no blood. Only torn skin._

_Nobody is home. His mother is out shopping, Mandy at a friends, and his father and brothers on a run. He usually doesn't mind being alone, but now he wishes his mom were here._

_Samson sits on the coffee table inside, amongst empty beer bottles and rolling papers. His beady eyes don't actually show emotion, but Mickey finds he looks welcoming. Comforting. He runs to the plushie, holding it close to his chest and crying into it's soft, thick fake fur._

_"I fell!" He tells him. Samson hugs him back in spirit._

_Mickey guides the plastic nose down to his scrapes, calming down slowly. He touches it to both knees, smearing a little blood on Samson's nose._

_"Thank you." He whispers, tears already drying._

 

* * *

 

"There's no shame in that, Mickey." Dr O'Connor smiles.

"Yeah, well..."

"What does masculinity mean to you, Mickey?"

"It means... it means a beating." Mickey shifts in his seat again. "It means that if I stepped out of line I would have died."

 

* * *

 

"I didn't tell you this before, but Svetlana got pregnant." 

Dr Stout leans back in his seat, "after the-"

"Yes." Mickey interrupts. He's uncomfortable, but he wants to be honest. He wants to move past the issue of the baby; past the issue of how he can't even look at him without hearing, _she's gonna fuck the faggot out of you, kid._

Dr Stout doesn't look disgusted, though, when Mickey tells him about his own disgust. It's at himself, mostly, and at the act that made Yevgeny even happen.

Mickey tells him that he's scared when he holds the baby, that he remembers. That he was always thankful when Ian took him out of his arms and held him instead.

"Does that make me a bad person?"

Dr Stout tells him it makes him a normal person. Some people love their children, some people are afraid of them, some people can't cope... every reaction could have been normal, for him. That brings some comfort to hear, though it's minimal.

"Ian stole him, once. When I tried to force him to go to the hospital. I told him it was the fucking ER or the psych ward."

"And he took the baby and left after that?"

"No. He told me he wanted to pack and shower. I felt... I felt guilty? I was supposed to take care of him, and I told him I was sending him away. I mean, no offence, but psych hospitals sounded fucked up back then. I didn't know."

Mickey shakes his head, reclining. "Anyways. He turned the shower on and snuck out. I ran out and Yev was gone, plus the car. Did I mention the porno?"

Dr Stout shakes his head, "no."

"He fucked some random guy. No protection. Then he just came home and told me, all casual like. I know it's the bipolar but, it still feels like shit."

"No matter what the reason is, it's still wrong. You can, and will hurt people when dealing with kinds of severe illnesses but it can never become an excuse for that kind of behaviour. What Ian did was wrong. He made a commitment, and he broke it."

Mickey rises to defend again, but sits back down and rethinks it.

Maybe that's progress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been writing a story that has a completely different genre and an essay about WW2 so ?? switching to this is trippy... sorry! It may sound forced :( not my best work tbh... sorry again -.-'
> 
> VERY nervous about this chapter!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Let me know what you think. Don't be shy :) My 2016 goal is to finish this off :) there will likely by 20 or more chapters. Less than 35, for sure.
> 
> The plushie Mickey talks about is based off of lesjouetsdudestin's headcanon :D She also read over it for me :) Thank you!


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